Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (20 page)

‘I take it we
are
going after Ivar then,’ Aethelnoth said as they headed back to the craftsman’s yard.

Eadwulf nodded. ‘We are – after we’ve returned the cart and offered the leather-worker the vegetables by way of thanks for his kindness. Then we need to find a foodstall to buy supplies for a few days before we meet up with Jorund at the alehouse.’ He shook his head, unable to suppress the smile that crept over his face. ‘That young rogue’s got some mettle, I’ll say that much for him.’

*****

Jorund was waiting for them at the alehouse. Astride his own handsome sorrel, he flashed them a smile as they heeled their mounts in the direction of the Danish camp.

‘I reckon if we’re caught anywhere
near
those tents, we’re dead meat.’ Aethelnoth said as the expansive encampment came into view. ‘The guards won’t be asking questions first.’

‘No, they won’t,’ Eadwulf agreed. ‘So we’ll just wait back here in the woods, watch what happens. If Ivar heads out anywhere, we’ll be ready to follow.’

‘He’ll be moving out soon,’ Jorund said, matter-of-factly.

Eadwulf dismounted, giving his brother a long, calculating look as he tethered his horse to the low bough of a tree. ‘And just how do you know that?’

‘I heard some of the Danes talking about it yesterday,’ Jorund said as he and Aethelnoth tethered their own mounts and came to stand beside him. ‘I was watching the hall – close to where I met up with you two today – and three men just walked past me, heading for the door. They didn’t notice me squatting in a corner by the fence back there, and stopped a few yards in front of me, still talking. I think they were Ivar’s men . . .’

‘So, will you tell us what they said,’ Eadwulf said irritably at the pause, ‘or are we supposed to guess?’

Jorund shrugged. ‘They said something about Ivar itching to get back to Dublin. I didn’t even know he’d ever been to Dublin–’

‘Ivar was in Ireland for a couple of years a while back,’ Aethelnoth interrupted, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I remember Hastein and Freydis talking about it. I also seem to recall them saying that Ivar hadn’t even known his father had gone raiding again until he arrived home – then a few weeks later news of Ragnar’s death reached him.’

‘Well, he’s aiming to get back there – Dublin, I mean,’ Jorund continued from where he’d left off. ‘And he’s taking a hundred or so of his men with him, leaving Halfdan and a Norwegian warrior called Bagsecg as leaders of the Great Army.’

Eadwulf digested the information and looked at Aethelnoth. ‘So, now we know: Ivar and his men will be heading to the coast, for their ships.’

‘Ubbi’s ships are beached along the Anglian coast as well.’ Jorund’s blue gaze clouded as it shifted from his brother to Aethelnoth and back again. ‘His fleet reached Anglia a short while after Ivar and Halfdan got here from York, his arrival being the main reason for King Edmund’s outright defeat. Ubbi had close on two hundred ships. The men I overheard had a good laugh about Edmund being trapped like a deer in the middle of a pack of hounds and not knowing which way to run. They thought it even funnier that Halfdan had buried his head somewhere and refused to tell the townsfolk where – and they’re desperate to give it Christian burial with the rest of his body.’

Eadwulf smiled at the thought of Halfdan’s prank, despite his hatred of the Dane. ‘You seem to know a lot more about events than we do, little brother.’

‘Just lucky to have been “eavesdropping” in the right place,’ Jorund said, flashing a cheeky grin at Aethelnoth.

‘Did those men say anything about Ubbi’s plans?’ Eadwulf asked, frowning as possibilities filled his head. ‘I mean, will Ubbi be staying here with Halfdan and this Bagsecg, or sailing off elsewhere with his own fleet – or perhaps even heading for Dublin with Ivar?’

Jorund shrugged. ‘Does it make any difference to you what Ubbi does?’

‘I really don’t want to have to confront Ubbi,’ Eadwulf admitted. ‘As far as I know he’s done nothing to warrant my vengeance, and I was always fond of the lad. But if he’s riding with Ivar, who knows what could happen?’

‘Surely you wouldn’t kill him . . . would you?’

Eadwulf held Jorund’s appalled stare. ‘Only if it came to him or me. I’ve no intention of dying just yet. I’ve not yet finished what I swore to do many years ago.’

Jorund nodded slowly, his mind seeming to accept Eadwulf’s answer even if his heart had not. ‘No one mentioned what Ubbi would be doing,’ he said quietly, ‘so I suppose that means he’s staying with the rest of the Great Army, for now at least.’

‘Well, at least we now know which way
we’re
heading,’ Aethelnoth put in, as a moody silence threatened to settle. ‘Following Ivar and a hundred men to the coast. It shouldn’t be too hard to keep up with them, if Ivar’s travelling in that wagon. We just need to figure out how to get near enough to actually kill the bastard. A hundred fighting men to our three doesn’t strike me as very favourable odds ’

A little after noon it became evident that their quarry would soon be on the move. The covered wagon and a couple of horse-drawn carts loaded with supplies already stood in readiness, and mounted men were gradually congregating.

‘We need to get to the far side of Thetford before we follow them,’ Eadwulf said, glancing at the others. ‘That way, there’ll be less chance of being spotted by anyone in the camp. We can always close in on Ivar’s convoy later on.’

Aethelnoth nodded as they mounted up, ready to skirt the town. ‘It’s already well past noon, and there won’t be enough light for travelling much longer.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘Who knows what can happen once darkness falls.’

Twenty

It had taken them little time to catch up with Ivar’s convoy, keeping their distance along the dirt-track road, and relying on the proximity of woodland should they be spotted. The journey had been a slow one for the Danes as the heavy wagon and carts trundled along at their own laborious rate at the back of the train, and by the time they’d travelled a mere ten miles from Thetford, the early November dusk began to fall.

Ivar’s company halted in a sheltered spot at the the edge of a stretch of largely leafless woodland and pitched camp for the night. Almost two miles to their rear, Eadwulf and his companions made their own camp deeper into the same stretch of forest, their horses hobbled in a nearby glade where they could graze on the scant November grasses. Eadwulf was finding it hard to contain his escalating anxiety and excitement, and recalled experiencing the same conflicting emotions before he’d taken his gruesome revenge on Rorik. And he sensed Ivar’s comeuppance drawing increasingly closer . . .

Following an afternoon of near-cloudless skies the air was bitterly cold, and they huddled in their cloaks as they ate an unappetising meal by the light of a slim new moon, their exhaled breaths clouding into the darkening night. They dare not risk the comfort of even the smallest fire. Eadwulf ate in silence, his thoughts awash with the problems of finding Ivar alone; the obstacles in their way. But, he promised himself, tomorrow night he’d make the attempt. Tonight they’d already set up camp – not something they’d do when they needed a quick getaway. Late tomorrow night, he and Aethelnoth would leave their ready-saddled horses with Jorund and make their way to Ivar’s camp on foot. All Eadwulf had to do was get inside that wagon whilst Aethelnoth kept watch, and silence the bastard before he could raise the alarm.

Yet such a plan depended not only on the proximity of Ivar’s aides, but on the alertness of the night watch. It could take hours of silent surveillance beforehand to determine the positioning of Ivar’s entire company, when any of the horses could give them away. Then there was always the possibility that Ivar wouldn’t be asleep even if Eadwulf
did
manage to get inside the wagon . . .

It seemed a hopeless plan, but right now Eadwulf couldn’t think of anything else. The only thing he knew for certain was that Ivar must die before he had the chance to board his ship. It would probably take another three days for the convoy to cover the remaining forty or so miles to the coast – which meant that Eadwulf had, at most, two nights to get into their camp.

Once they’d finished eating, Eadwulf expressed his concerns to Aethelnoth and Jorund. Aethelnoth was unable to offer any better plan of action, but Jorund suddenly piped up, ‘Well, I’ve got a really good idea.’

‘All right,’ Aethelnoth said, beating Eadwulf to a response, ‘tell us what this brilliant idea is, then we can all get some sleep.’

*****

After a night of fitful dozing, woken all too often by the penetrating cold, Eadwulf and his companions roused to a morning of clear skies and gleaming white frosts. A morning for thick cloaks and brisk movement; ideally suited to Eadwulf’s throbbing anxiety.

Having accepted Jorund’s plan as a better option than his own obstacle-beset one, they set out to trail Ivar’s cavalcade for a second day, he and Aethelnoth with their bows across their saddle pommels and quivers strapped across their backs. For a while they rode in silence, contemplating the task ahead, and before long they had their quarry in sight. They held well back, not wanting to alert the two guards bringing up the rear to their presence.

‘Can’t we just get on with this?’ Jorund griped. ‘Those two guards are easy targets, and they’re the only thing between us and Ivar.’

Eadwulf twisted in his saddle to face his brother, riding between himself and Aethelnoth. ‘Not knowing the road ahead, Jorund, we need to be patient, wait for the right opportunity to arise. And when it does, we move fast.’

Jorund frowned, evidently thinking about that, and Eadwulf added, tolerantly, ‘So far, the road’s been straighter than the Fosse Way and . . .’

‘We need some bends,’ Jorund finished for him, looking pleased with himself for not needing the rest explained.

‘Right,’ Aethelnoth said. ‘Then your brother and I will do what we have to do and
you’ll
do as we planned. The horses must be ready for us to make a quick getaway.’

It wasn’t long before the road gradually began to meander around spurs of forest that extended down to the dirt-packed road, some curves sharper than others. Then, as Ivar’s cavalcade rounded one particularly acute turn, Eadwulf gestured forward with his hand, the signal to close in.

By the time he and Aethelnoth were in range to loose their arrows, most of the convoy had disappeared from sight. Then the two carts rounded the bend, leaving Ivar’s wagon and the two rear guards – possibly Ivar’s aides – within their sights.

The arrows flew true, striking the backs of the two Danes with a dull thud. One slumped across his horse’s neck; the other slid sideways from his saddle to the road. Dismounting and handing their reins to Jorund, Aethelnoth and Eadwulf sprinted forward. Reaching the back of Ivar’s wagon, Aethelnoth crept along its side, keeping pace with it as it rolled along, his hand on the hilt of his sword. If Eadwulf’s actions alerted the driver, the sword would be put to its bloody use. Eadwulf swung himself up to stand on the bar at the base of the chassis. The hide drapes hung loose, still screening the inside of the wagon, and for a moment he stood there, listening, his heartbeat racing. If Ivar had detected anything amiss above the rumbling of the wagon’s wheels, he could have a knife to hand – and Eadwulf’s plan could go totally awry.

He parted the drapes and stepped silently into the dim, oppressive space, his upper body stooped beneath the low-ceilinged cover.

Ivar was slumped on the floor of the wagon, his dark head facing frontwards, propped by a mound of thick cushions and his misshapen back supported by a small chest. He seemed to be staring out through a narrow gap in the hides that shielded the interior of the wagon from the driver, completely oblivious to the presence of the assassin at his rear . . .

Eadwulf sprang forward, looping a thin cord around Ivar’s bull neck with crossed arms, pulling it tight and twisting it at the back. Ivar’s hands shot up, clawing frantically at the ligature crushing his neck, cutting off the very air he breathed.

‘I should have strung you up in Odin’s oak,’ Eadwulf whispered into Ivar’s ear as he continued to twist. ‘The same fate you caused to be inflicted on my mother. Or I could have slit your throat, as you did to Sigehelm. Perhaps Odin’s ravens will accept you as a suitable offering . . . 
Or perhaps not,’ he murmured with a grim snigger as Ivar’s arms slid down from his throat and his head fell forward. 

‘I doubt that Odin would welcome one as heinous as you,’ he added to the lifeless corpse.

*****

Eadwulf positioned Ivar’s hands so they appeared to be clasped across his belly and removed the gruesome ligature from around his neck, allowing his head to remain lolling forward. Then he plumped up the large down-filled cushions to ensure the body stayed in its seated position and did not topple sideways. Should the driver happen to glance through the frontal drapes, Ivar must appear to be dozing. With any luck, he’d be too wary of Ivar’s temper to waken him before they all stopped to eat later on.

As to the absence of the two rear guards, all Eadwulf could hope was that no one would feel the need to look back. Not for the first time, Eadwulf realised how much their success in this venture relied upon luck . . .

And right now, on the need for a swift departure.

A short distance back along the road, Jorund was waiting with their horses. As requested, he’d dragged the bodies of the two guards into the forest, leaving the riderless mounts to roam or graze at will along the edges of the road. They set off at a gallop, intending to take the same route round the north of Thetford, then on towards Peterborough, thus skirting the fenlands, and eventually riding north along Ermine Street back to Elston. Eadwulf realised that by the time they reached home, he and Aethelnoth would have been away for almost three weeks.

Then, Eadwulf thought with a grimace, he’d have to face Leoflaed. And if their reunion did not turn out as Aethelnoth had continuously insisted it would, he’d likely be spending the Christmastide in someone’s barn.

*****

Five days after Ivar had set out for the Anglian coast, a party of ten of his men returned to Thetford, accompanying his covered wagon. They headed through the crowded streets towards the royal hall, where they yelled for Lords Halfdan and Bagsecg. Their arrival left Haldan feeling physically sick. Inside the wagon was Ivar’s body.

It wasn’t grief that Halfdan felt, the deep anguish at losing a beloved brother. He’d never actually
loved
his brother – or anyone else, for that matter. His strong feelings for Ivar were based on something quite different. Halfdan had certainly respected his brother, but he was honest enough with himself to admit that that respect had been founded on fear. He’d always been terrified of Ivar’s powers over people; powers that could so easily have been directed at
him
if he’d stepped out of line. So he’d spent his life desperately trying to please his malformed sibling. Praise from Ivar made him feel important, and he was content to bask in the effects of Ivar’s authority over others. Few dared to disobey or offend Halfdan for fear of Ivar’s wrath.

But now, Ivar was well and truly dead. With his younger brother, Ubbi, Halfdan had viewed Ivar’s body himself, observed the bulging eyes and grotesquely swollen tongue, the ugly red burn mark around his neck and the deep scratches where Ivar had clawed at the asphyxiating garrotte. Whatever ligature the assassin had used, he must have taken it away with him.

Inside the hall, Halfdan sank to a bench beside Ubbi, swamped with images of how Ivar’s murder could have been committed. He’d listened to the tale related by the returning men and none of it made any sense. First, there was the question of why his brother had assigned no guards to the rear other than his own aides – both of whom were seemingly blind and deaf! And why had Ivar chosen to travel at the very back of the convoy anyway? But Halfdan knew that whatever his brother’s reasons had been, no one would have dared to question them . . .

Then there was the very idea that anyone could have got inside the wagon without Ivar even managing to alert the drivers of the carts ahead of him – not to mention how this brazen killer had managed to get clean away, unnoticed.

Bagsecg just stood there, staring into the hearthfire, seemingly as nonplussed as Halfdan and Ubbi. And yet . . . Halfdan couldn’t help but wonder. Bagsecg’s hatred of Ivar was well known. Could this so-called ‘king’ have sent an assassin – or perhaps
assassins
–
to follow after Ivar’s convoy and get rid of his rival once and for all? Or even worse, could he have bribed one of Ivar’s own men to do the job? The more Halfdan thought about it, the more likely the latter idea seemed. But he knew he’d never prove anything, either way.

Halfdan gestured to the ten men to sit and slake their thirsts, sweeping them with an enquiring gaze. ‘So where’s the rest of your convoy?’ he asked once they’d had a chance to down a few mouthfuls of ale. ‘There were at least a hundred of you when you set out, so are we to expect their return some time soon?’ He focused on a familiar face. ‘Ornolf . . . ?’

Ornolf took a breath and looked straight at Halfdan. ‘They’ve carried on to the coast, my lord; decided they’d rather take their chances in Dublin than come back here and ride into Wessex. Most of them had been to Dublin before and reckoned it was ripe for some lucrative pickings, for a while at least. We were only a couple of days’ ride from the coast when we found Ivar’s body, so I suppose they felt they may as well carry on – even without him.’

Silent so far, Ubbi decided to speak up. ‘Is it likely that whoever throttled Ivar is amongst those men? I mean, sailing away to Dublin would be the ideal escape, wouldn’t it?’

Halfdan nodded, convinced that the person Ubbi had in mind was in Bagsecg’s pay. But Bagsecg’s next remark took him by surprise.

‘I suppose the killer could just as likely have come back here.’

The outraged denials from Ivar’s men were to be expected, Halfdan thought, watching the Norwegian’s probing stare move from one to the other. ‘Surely no one would be stupid enough to do that, my lord!’ Ornolf retorted. ‘We came back because we felt that someone should bring the news of Ivar’s death back to his brothers.’ He shot a sympathetic look at Halfdan and Ubbi. ‘Besides, we don’t believe Ivar’s killers were amongst our men at all. Whoever it was must have approached our cavalcade from behind. We found the bodies of the two rear guards in the forest, with arrows sunk into their backs. So it’s probable that at least two men were involved. As to their identity . . .’ He shook his head with a shrug. ‘They could be any number of men from throughout these kingdoms.’

Ornolf seemed relieved at Halfdan’s nod, and gestured at his companions. ‘We ten also felt reluctant to continue on to Dublin without Ivar. Our party was left without a leader, and we all know what happens when groups of men are left to their own devices. Nothing is ever agreed upon without brawls–’

‘We understand what you’re saying,’ Halfdan cut in, scowling as he glanced at Bagsecg. It was bad enough when there were two leaders with conflicting ideas. ‘And I’m inclined to believe your motives for returning are honourable. From what you say, it seems that even speculating as to the identity of Ivar’s killers would serve no purpose.’

He smiled at the relieved-looking group. ‘You have our thanks for returning Ivar’s body for a funeral ceremony befitting so powerful a leader. A funeral pyre that reaches up to the gods will be prepared for tomorrow morning. Of course, whether or not you choose to remain with our army or go your own way is up to you.’ Halfdan shot a venomous look at Bagsecg. ‘You just need to be aware that we’ll be staying in Anglia for another year. Not what my brother would have advocated, I know, but on this occasion, the decision was not for him to make . . . Besides, a year will give us time to ensure the smooth running of the kingdom under this puppet, Oswald, before we move on to Wessex. He seems little more than a dim-witted fool to me.’